


And We Borrow, Every Point on this Coffin We've Borrowed

by vyrenrolar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Badass Women, Battle of Hogwarts, Character Study, Dumbledore's Army, Gen, Hogwarts Library, Strong Female Characters, badass female characters, like literally only a mention, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyrenrolar/pseuds/vyrenrolar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Madam Irma Pince proves to be an integral part of the Hogwarts community. Title from a poem by jennythebot on tumblr.</p><p>"Because of course. Of course the witches of Hogwarts would not bear leaving their students unprepared to march to war. Of course. Mothers' love, isn't that what saves Harry Potter, over and over? ("Harry Potter, the boy who gives." Oh but isn't that true, gives and gives and gives of himself. Now, where did he learn that?)" - mouseymightymarvellous</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Borrow, Every Point on this Coffin We've Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> Title from http://jennythebot.tumblr.com/post/149827636802/a-poem

This is a story of Irma Jean Pince. It is not the story of the shrieking witch you've seen in the corner of a page, but it is a story of the Hogwarts librarian. It is a story of books, and children, and ink. It begins one day in Harry Potter's fifth year at Hogwarts, and it _does not end._

* * *

 

She hears whispers of Dumbledore's Army. She does not obtain the whole story at once, but in a hushed murmur here, a surreptitious glance there. She watches her students (because they are all _her_ students) bent and folded into themselves and aches for the days when she couldn’t read her book for all the talking and wand waving. She pieces it together over the course of a couple of weeks, then chooses a night. She appears in the doorway of the Room with a stack of books in her blue robed arms.

“Hello, Mr. Potter. I heard about your little venture, and I thought that perhaps I could be of some assistance.”

They welcome her in, and they let her stay, because the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins there have taught them never to turn away a potential ally. Where Harry teaches his students (because they are _his_ students, here) the _what_ and the _when_ of spellcasting, she teaches them the _how_ and the _why_. Because this spell, here, it comes from Latin, and that's why you move your wand this way. And that charm, the one you just used, it's rumored to be from as far back as Atlantis, and that's why you move your wand hardly at all.

Irma and Hermione (She drops the madam within the first day. “If we’re going to break all the other rules we might as well break this one too.”) spend hours together in the library poring over ancient texts, marking down anything they find that might be useful to the other soldiers. Irma pulls out books on battle strategy, self defense tactics, the history of corruption. Hermione finds fairy tales, joke books, and stories of the little kindnesses that go unnoticed. Irma checks them all out herself and tells the children not to worry about the due dates.

Once, she finds one of the third years who goes when the meetings aren’t too late crying in the hall. She swoops down upon the child (She always swoops. “Honestly, you’ve _got_ to teach me how to do that,” says Ron.) and brings them into the library's back room. After lemon tea and some treacle tart, the student tells the hawk-eyed librarian that they have a three foot essay to write for Defense and they haven’t even covered anything tangentially relevant in class (they get another tart for the use of the word tangential) and what are they going to do? Irma squares her shoulders and starts tutoring the younger students when she can. She gives them extra detentions (at their request) that they naturally must spend in the library studying. (But of course it’s only coincidence that their essays improve in length, spelling, grammar, and penmanship once these detentions start.) When _that woman_ peeks in to make sure all is as it should be, she nods at Madam Pince, proud of her for being so stern with the children.

She takes Harry aside one night after most everyone has left and asks for his help. “I’m ruddy brilliant at theory, of course, but I’ve never had much practical combat experience, and I should very much like to hex all the pink right off _that woman_ when I get the chance.” And so he stays, sometimes ten minutes, sometimes an hour after everyone has left, and he duels his school’s librarian, because she asked. And he is Harry Potter, the boy who gives.

When Pince and Pomfrey and Hooch meet for their weekly tea, which lately has become their weekly ale, Irma is quietly handed a few vials of pepper up potion, a dreamless sleep or two. It’s not much, but it helps her keep Mr. Potter and his closer friends functional, at least for the time being.

One night, Hooch, who knows all the spells used to keep unwanted guests away from professional Quidditch games, covers the pitch in darkness and mist and “ _Oh I_ _should really go check on that_.” Harry brings out the younger students (Irma had shown them all how to perform disillusionment charms), some of whom have never been on a broom outside of the introductory class, and Hooch teaches them all how to flit from shadow to shadow, how to bob and weave around an enemy. She teaches them how to pull up when they’re inches from the ground and trust that the broom knows what it’s doing. She teaches them how to shrink a broom down so it fits in their pocket, reaches out to her old teammates from the Holyhead Harpies, and then dozens of old-but-still-good brooms come by owl. Soon every soldier (along with several unaffiliated students) has a twig in the pocket of their robe, _just in case_.

Another day, Pomfrey speaks to Sprout over coffee and biscuits, and the plump woman shows up that night, Neville Longbottom in tow, to teach the students of Dumbledore's (Harry's) Army. She teaches them about the best plants to make a quick healing salve, the mushrooms that will put people to sleep, the lichen that will make an enemy forget their own name and walk bowlegged for the rest of the day. _T_ _hat woman_ has forbidden her from taking the students into the greenhouses (“They could get _hurt,_ Pomona. Trust me, they’re much better off learning it all from books.”), but she will be _damned_ if she neglects her duty to the children now. She works with Hagrid to take them into the forest, to teach them all the safe places nature gives a child to hide, how to ask a bowtruckle for help. (Nasty little ankle biters, those. And so difficult to _catch_.)

Irma keeps the volunteering professors organized, a small datebook secreted away between the 1273rd and 1274th pages of her master catalog. She makes sure no two come on the same night, for it just wouldn’t do to raise suspicion. She also makes sure no more than one comes in a week; this is Potter’s show, after all, and he’s doing a damn fine job.

McGonagall does not come to the meetings; it would be too dangerous for her to be seen there. She does, however, pass little notes of encouragement and wisdom to her students. She teaches them, bit by bit, how to write in a code that magic cannot break (Never let it be said that she learned nothing from her muggle heritage; she once had quite a good friend who worked at Bletchley). She teaches them signs, little gestures that let them communicate across a classroom when a teacher’s back is turned (Her almost husband was the child of deaf parents; she had of course become fluent). She cannot teach them much of this, not at once, but teach she does. She finds that each of her students does better in her class than ever before, and she resolves never to allow a student to feel _less_ , ever again.

Trelawney does not come either, but she picks a flower for each of her students every single day. When she is nearly removed from the school entirely, her students brings her irises, bring her azaleas, bring her baby’s breath. She fills her chambers with flowers in vases and waits for them to wither. They do not.

Sinistra, who already has her students' ears in the dark of night, teaches them navigation, teaches them weather patterns. She teaches them how to move their shadows so they cannot be seen around corners. She teaches them how to fade into the black without an uttered spell, relying only on the softness of their step, the quiet of their breath. If she glimpses a student fidgeting with a gold coin, she places her hand on their shoulder and nods. They do not stay until the end of class. She does not mention it in their records.

The Weasley twins come to Irma (because this is, still, a story of Irma Pince) just past supper one night, and tell her they want to go out with a bang. She closes her eyes for a moment, ponders, then waves her wand wordlessly. A half dozen books fly to her from all corners of the room, and she presents them to the boys without a word. They grin and promise her a family discount once they’ve opened their shop.

When _that woman_ invites her up for tea, she takes a bit of Pomona’s lichen with her. Not enough to do any lasting damage, but enough to make _that woman_ stumble a bit, over her words as well as her feet. “I just wanted to say, dear, that I’ve noticed the firm hand you take with the children, and I think it’s just wonderful. I’m very proud of you, Irma.”

When Pince goes to the meeting that night, she asks Dean and Seamus to teach her how to fight, how to hurt with her fists. They size her up and do not look at each other before saying together, “Nah, fencing.” Soon nearly all the club members are clambering to learn to duel with a sword as well as a wand. Luna takes to wearing throwing stars in her hair, and Neville keeps a set of brass knuckles in his pocket (“For Bellatrix,” he says). Irma notices the bags under the boy’s eyes and hands him a vial of Poppy’s dreamless sleep potion. The bags are a little less pronounced the next day, and he almost seems like he can breathe.

Irma sees Hermione’s hair frizzing even more than usual, and slips her a piece of folded parchment as the girl checks out a book. When Miss Granger opens it later that night, she finds a two foot potions essay by _Irma Jean Pince, Year Four_. she copies it gratefully, changing some of the wording around so _that man_ will not suspect. She only feels a twinge of guilt for not doing her own work, but justifies it quickly, knowing that she has done enough work for the DA to last a lifetime of potions classes. She receives her usual high marks. The following day, Irma gives her her notes from one of Binns’ lectures. As the ghost has not changed his lesson plans in decades, they are still quite accurate. For the first time, Hermione Granger allows herself to doze in class.

Occasionally, young Mr. Potter (and he is _so_ young) comes up to Madam Pince, under the guise of returning a book, and signs, hands stuttering, “Am I doing the right thing?” Irma takes the book from the child, only fifteen and already so, so brave, and lets her hand linger on his, squeezing gently. She smiles, and he lets out a breath no fifteen year old should be holding in the first place. He squares his shoulders and walks once more into the day. Irma makes a mental note to tell Minerva that Potter’s signing is coming along quite well, and perhaps she could shorten the minimum length on his next essay.

The youngest Weasley boy does not come to her. One day, however, she finds him sitting under a willow by the lake and stabbing his wand into the ground. She sits beside him and tells him of the time that her best friend was raped, and she and the other three Slytherin girls in her year had beaten the boy responsible to within an inch of his life. Ron tells her of the time Hermione punched Malfoy, of wishing it had been his arm to swing. He tells her of letting Wormtail escape, of losing Lupin to the moon. He tells her of the visions he has of death and blood and _red_ , thinking she might understand. She does. She teaches him how to conquer the red, use it to push himself forward instead of letting it solder his feet to the ground. He tells her he is ready to die for the cause. She takes him by the shoulders, looks him in the eyes, and tells him to _live_ instead. He has friends who need him, a girl who might just love him, and a sister who would be lost without him. He scoffs, and she slaps him. He rubs his cheek, grins, and thanks her. The next time Dean and Seamus run sparring drills, he asks to be paired with Irma.

Luna comes to the library sometimes, barefoot and bright eyed. She offers to give Irma a back rub, and in return, Irma tells her about the time she almost certainly saw an Umglubular Slashkilter in her youth. Luna offers to draw her a picture of one.

When words become blows become abductions and death, Irma Pince is there in her library, welcoming any student who comes to escape the chaos. All through Potter's sixth year, she remains, stalwart as ever. She still slips potions to bedraggled students, and she still gives Hermione Granger her History of Magic notes. Though she no longer stands among the children as an equal, she remains their friend and their staunch supporter. When Dumbledore dies, when the ministry mysteriously reorganizes, she sends owls to her muggleborn students with names of friends in nearby countries who just might help them disappear. That summer, dozens of children, some no older than twelve, unshrink hidden brooms and fly to cities they have never seen. Irma does not know how many would have died if she had not reached out. She shudders when she thinks of the ones she did not reach in time.

When Neville moves in to the Room of Requirement, she gathers her things and makes a bed next to his. She does not stay there every night, and sometimes she goes a week or more without visiting the Room, but she keeps it there for those endless nights that see them talking until the candles burn out. The House Elves bring him enough food to get by, but she makes sure to bring him pumpkin juice, and butterbeer, and something a little stronger when he needs it. When she cries for all the children she could not save, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and offers her a swig of the firewhiskey. She falls in love with this beautiful boy, a little, and were she fifty years younger and anything but a lesbian, she might have asked him to look her up after the war. Still, when she receives his wedding invitation by owl a few years later, she smiles. When Luna asks her to be a bridesmaid, she cries, laughs, and says yes, of course, would you like me to braid your hair?

She passes healing salves and memory suppressants on to the children who fall prey to the Carrows. She makes it a point to go to meals in the Great Hall as often as possible so she can watch the first years to make certain they are eating enough, eating properly. She tells the elves which ones aren't, and so it is that several students who often find it too painful to lift a fork find bowls of soup, cups of green, bits of soft chicken shaped like dragons, waiting for them in their dormitories. Some of the more curious ones ask the older children about this strange occurrence, and these older children smile, saying, “Hogwarts always has a way of giving you what you need. Do you want to go to the library?”

She smiles to herself when she hears students whispering in the halls. She knows they are teaching each other how to survive, what to look for in the night sky, who to write to get a broom that will fit in a pocket. She knows these students, knows that they will protect each other with their last breaths. She knows them, and she loves them, and they are _hers_.

She is brave, this Slytherin woman, though she would never call herself so. She would only say she does what needs doing. They are her children, after all. And when her children go to war, she marches beside them. Sword in one hand, wand in the other, she shrieks, her raptor eyes lighting with the fire only a mother of so many could hold. She kills, that night, takes a life for each she's seen lost, for each she's seen slip away into a grey haze through which no child should have to swim. She slays giants, that night, slices inferi in thirds. She does not pause, not for a moment, for this is her war as much as it is anyone's, and she cannot rest while her children are in danger. She puts to use the things she learned from fifteen year old boys and girls, kicks the way young Mr. Finnegan showed her, pushes her magic through her wand the way Miss Granger taught. She sees Neville Longbottom slice his way through a serpent, feels the night scream around her, and fights on. Word reaches her of walls collapsing, of children falling, of a castle burning from within. And she does not rest. She does not falter. She fights by the sides of Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, for there are no House rivalries tonight. There is only Hogwarts, and those who see no option but to defend it with their very lives. This is their home, after all, and they are fighting for the family within its crumbling walls.

Even during the hour of respite, she does not slow. She carries the bodies of children, some with her wand and others in her arms, to the relative safety of the Great Hall. She sees to it that Poppy never runs out of healing salves; they had been stockpiling all year, knowing this day would come. She seems to be everywhere at once, and refuses to let her own wounds be tended to. (“There are children in _pain_ , Argus; I can certainly handle a few bumps and bruises.”)

When Tom Riddle falls, and the fighting is over, she lets herself rest for a moment. Poppy and Pomona take the opportunity to press moss against her skin, mutter incantations over her broken ribs. When they have finished for the moment, she rises, returning to the bodies of the fallen. Three of the fourteen breathing children she finds in the rubble do not live to see the sunrise. She writes letters to their parents. One is returned unopened.

When she is interviewed for the special edition of the Prophet, she does not speak of herself. “This is not my story. This was not my fight, not really. This battle, this war...it belongs to the children. These brilliant children, the finest Hogwarts has ever known, banded together and taught each other how to survive. More than that, they taught each other how to _live_. I have had the privilege of learning from these dedicated, effervescent children, as well as the honor of fighting beside them. I have also had the solemn duty to bury some of them. We have lost too many, these last few years. Do not let the history books forget their names.”

In the weeks to come, Irma Pince writes many a letter. She writes, and she reads, and she makes treacle tart and lemon tea for the children who do not wish to return to half empty houses just yet. She welcomes no less than twenty-three new ghosts to the halls of her regrown home, assuring them that yes, of course she'll come to their death day parties next year. Miss Granger sends her an owl every few days with news from the reforming Ministry. She takes a trip to Diagon Alley in August and heads straight for the joke shop. It is the brightest, loudest building on the street. The twins agree as one to help her.

On the first Saturday in September, the Hogwarts library is packed with students, each with a quill in hand. Buckets of brightly colored inks are being passed out by several red haired wizards, a couple of red haired witches, a dark skinned girl with more hair than any one human should be able to carry, and a boy with a scar on his forehead. Irma Pince stands upon her desk, her eyes passing over the children around her. These children have seen more than they ought; they have nightmares of death and blood and _red_. She will not let their sacrifices go unlauded. She will not let them be forgotten.

She waves her wand for silence, then puts it to her throat and tells the children they may begin. They dip their quills into the ink buckets and begin to write, feverishly, as though it is the only thing keeping them from dying. They write on walls and tables and chairs and books, on parchment and carpet and stone and wood. They write, in their pinks and blues and golds and greens, in iridescent turquoise and in ink that shines every color of the rainbow at once. They write until every surface is covered, and every bucket is empty. They stop, finally, breathing as though they have seen war. They have.

Irma Pince raises her wand, and those able follow suit. She begins to speak, then, low and loud and in perfect Latin. A blonde haired, barefoot Ravenclaw girl begins to sing in a lilting soprano. The room begins to glow. Every spot of ink shines with the souls poured into it. Names, faces, laughter, memories. They fill the room with light, and everyone breathes in. The ink, now dry and full of magic, rises from its resting places, rises from the pages of books and the undersides of tables, and hangs itself in the air. Irma Pince waves her wand in a circle around her, and a soft wind begins to blow. The paragraphs and pictures begin to move, in every shade the Weasley twins could imagine in three weeks' time. They float throughout the room, where everyone can see and touch these multicolored memories. These mementos of those lost, they will remain in this room full of stories until long after the last student has left this school. They will stay until the walls crumble of their own accord, thousands of years from now. Irma Pince smiles to herself, and knows that the fallen children will not be forgotten. Neville Longbottom takes her hand and squeezes it gently. Harry Potter takes the other and does the same. Together they watch the memories of Hogwarts brighten the room.

She is brave, this Slytherin woman, though she would never call herself so. She would only say she does what needs doing. They are her children, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a "what if" headcanon oops.


End file.
